by Pamela Clare
And you fought as a special operator for what branch of the military, West—the Salvation Army?
He’d been damned lucky those idiots couldn’t shoot worth a damn.
It was dark now, the wind colder. Drivers slowed down as they passed, pedestrians stopping on the sidewalk to watch the spectacle of squad cars and flashing lights.
Nate’s thoughts were interrupted by a child’s giggle. He followed the sound, his gaze drawn to a tall man in a black SWAT uniform who carried a blond-haired little girl. Wearing a pink coat and wrapped in a white blanket, the girl must have been about four years old. The cop bounced her in his arms, and she giggled again, clutching a purple toy pony to her chin.
She was about the cutest thing Nate had ever seen.
Megan must have heard her daughter’s laughter, too. Relief on her face, she got out of the car and hurried over to the man, who enfolded her in his embrace, kissing her cheek and placing the little girl—Megan had called her Emily—in her arms. Megan held her daughter close, tears spilling down her cheeks. The tall cop put his arms around her, holding both mother and daughter close. Was he her boyfriend? Her husband? Nate couldn’t recall seeing a wedding ring on her finger.
And then suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get back to the ranch. Without saying goodbye, he crossed the street, climbed into his truck, and headed for the ranch.
It was only after he was halfway home that he realized he had her wallet—the wallet he’d ripped from that bastard Donny’s hands—in his coat pocket.
CHAPTER 2
“I want to be reassigned from SWAT to Megan’s protection detail until we have this sonofabitch in custody. I don’t give a shit if it’s a conflict of interests.”
Fighting to ignore the anxious knot in her stomach, Megan set about reheating last night’s leftover spaghetti for Emily’s supper, while Marc paced the living room talking on his cell phone with Chief Irving. No matter that Irving was Marc’s boss and ought to have been the one giving orders. Marc was the most protective big brother in the history of the universe. He wouldn’t let something like rank stand in his way.
Megan would never be able to repay Marc for all he’d done to keep her safe—nor would she ever be able to make up for the hurt she’d caused him.
She slid a plate of spaghetti and green beans in the microwave, pushed the buttons, then turned her back to the stove, feeling strangely disoriented in her own kitchen, her sense of safety shattered.
Damn it! Damn!
Why had she believed that a restraining order would be enough to keep Donny away? She should have realized that news stories about the settlement from her lawsuit against the state Department of Corrections would catch his attention. Though the total amount of the settlement—$1.5 million—was sealed by court order, Donny would know it involved a lot of money. He knew what had been done to her.
She closed her eyes and began to count, breathing deeply, trying to dissipate the panic that had begun to gather behind her breastbone.
“The witness put three forty-five rounds through that Continental. With any luck, some bastard is on his way to the ER with lead in his ass. We’re canvassing ERs just in case. No, I didn’t get to speak with the man, though I owe him a huge debt of thanks.”
Megan’s eyes opened, her brother’s words bringing back those few crucial moments in the car.
Are you okay?
Y-yes, but the men in the other car—
Get down!
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Nathaniel West might well have saved her life tonight—and Emily’s.
The microwave beeped, making Megan jump.
She drew a shaky breath. Willing herself to hold onto her composure for Emily’s sake, she reached for her daughter, who sat on the floor coloring in her new horse coloring book. “Let’s wash your hands, sweet pea.”
She picked Emily up, carried her to the sink and helped her lather and rinse her hands, then sat her in her chair, placing the plate of spaghetti and green beans before her together with a small fork and a sippy cup of milk. She reached for a bib and was tying it around Emily’s neck when someone came up behind her.
“What am I supposed to eat?”
Megan gasped and jumped, startled by the sound of her brother’s voice. “I … I can make more spaghetti if you…”
“Megan.” Marc’s grin faded to a look of concern. He drew her into his arms and held her close. “I was kidding. The last thing in the world I want you to worry about tonight is feeding my face. I’ll send one of the guys out to grab me a sandwich or something. You should eat, too.”
“I’m not hungry.” Megan let herself sink into her brother’s embrace, hating herself for feeling so afraid again, so vulnerable. She’d tried to put all of this behind her for Emily’s sake—and for her own. And now…
“I’m so, so sorry this happened.” Marc drew back, looked into her eyes. “I promise I’m going to put him away so that he can’t hurt you or threaten Emily again. I wish I’d blown his head off when I had the chance.”
Megan drew away, shaking her head. “Don’t say that. If you had, you’d probably still be in prison.”
Marc raised a hand to the earpiece in his right ear, his gaze shifting toward the front door a moment before someone knocked. “It’s about time.”
Megan watched while Marc walked to the door and opened it to reveal Julian Darcangelo, his best friend and the only police officer other than her brother whom Megan trusted with her life. He was dressed head to toe in black as he usually was when he was working a case—black leather jacket, black turtleneck, black jeans, black boots—his dark hair tied back in a short ponytail.
“McBride is on his way.” He exchanged a quick glance with Marc, then strolled into the kitchen. “How you doing, kiddo?”
Megan hugged her arms around herself, the concern and sympathy in Julian’s eyes somehow making it harder not to cry. “I … I’m okay.”
“Uncle Julie!” Emily squealed at the sight of him, her face lighting up, her smile messy with spaghetti sauce.
From the living room, Megan heard Marc snicker. “Uncle Julie.”
“Hey, sweetie.” Julian flipped Marc off discreetly behind his back, gave Emily a warm smile, then met Megan’s gaze, seeming to study her. “You need a hug?”
It was Julian’s way of asking her whether it was okay for him to touch her. He had spent the better part of his years with the FBI working undercover to free girls and women who’d fallen victim to sex trafficking. He seemed to understand better than anyone how hard it was for her to trust men, to let them near her, to let them touch her, even in a casual way.
She nodded, tears blurring her vision.
He wrapped his arms around her. “It’s going to be okay. Donny doesn’t know it yet, but he just picked a fight with the wrong bunch of guys.”
# # #
Nate knew it would have been easier to drop Megan’s wallet by the police station and let the cops handle it. There was no need for him to deliver it in person. And yet, here he was, turning onto her street at the wheel of the damned delivery truck.
She lived in a tidy middle-class neighborhood with minivans in the driveways and strollers and bicycles on the porches—a family neighborhood. He glanced at the houses, saw that odd addresses were on the left side of the street, even ones on the right. And there it was—two houses down.
He pulled up in front, parked at the curb, and climbed out of the truck, her wallet tucked in his jacket pocket, some part of him wondering what the hell he was doing here. The last thing Megan would want tonight is some stranger showing up at her door.
He started up the sidewalk, but hadn’t yet taken ten steps when he heard heavy footfalls on the ground behind him.
“Freeze! Police!”
What the…?
Nate stopped and slowly raised his hands, only to find himself rushed from all sides by men with weapons drawn. He opened his mouth to tell them he wasn’t the man they were looking for, but was shouted down.
“Down on the ground! Hands behind your head!”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He did as they demanded, rough hands forcing him to the cold concrete, patting him down
A hand slid beneath Nate’s parka and found his empty holster. “Shoulder holster, but no weapon. Where’s the weapon, buddy? Did you leave it in the truck?”
Nate tried to explain. “The police confiscated—”
Another hand reached into his right jeans pocket. “He’s got her wallet.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“Back off, Hunter. You’re too close to this. Let us handle it.”
“You’re making a mistake. I’m Nathaniel West. I was at the scene today. I’m the one who—”
Strong hands grasped Nate’s wrists, bringing his arms behind his back, making the constricted muscles and tendons in his right shoulder and arm scream.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Nate tried again. “I’m Nathaniel West—the man who called 911. I’m the one who got that bastard Donny off her.”
Cold plastic gripped his wrists as the cuffs were drawn tight.
“Nathaniel West?” asked the man who had just cuffed him. “Got proof of that?”
“Yes.” Sweat beaded on Nate’s forehead, the pain in his shoulder unrelenting. He rested his cheek on the cold sidewalk, willed his arm to relax. “My wallet is in the truck.”
“I’m on it.” Footsteps on concrete. The squeak of the truck door’s hinges. The clank as the door was shut again. “His driver’s license says Nathaniel West. Is that the guy’s name, Hunter?”
“Shit. Yeah, McBride. That’s his name.”
“What are you doing here?” came the voice from the man holding him down.
“I came to give Ms. Hunter her wallet. I got it away from that son of a bitch when he and I fought, but I forgot I had it. Now, can you get me out of these damned cuffs? You know I’m not armed.”
“We’ve got the wrong man.” That was the voice of the cop who’d gone to the truck. “Let him up, Darcangelo.”
Nate felt a tug on the plastic as the cuffs were cut and his wrists were freed. He pushed himself up with his left arm and got to his feet, rubbing the ache from his right shoulder. He glanced around and found himself surrounded by three men, all of them as tall as he was, a few uniforms hanging out in the background.
Darcangelo—the one who’d held him down and cuffed him—wore a black leather jacket and jeans, his hair drawn back in a ponytail. The lack of badge and street clothes told Nate he was a detective. He looked like a man who’d spent his life on the street and knew how to fight dirty. His relaxed stance didn’t fool Nate. The man was like a cougar, ready to attack.
Beside Darcangelo stood a clean-cut man wearing a suit and tie, a duty badge that read “Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Zach McBride” clipped on his jacket. McBride studied Nate with a gaze that could cut glass, then glanced at Nate’s driver’s license. “Definitely the wrong guy.”
A SWAT cop, a police detective and a chief deputy U.S. Marshal made for a very unusual surveillance team. He’d bet they were buddies.
Nate reached out, took his wallet. “Damned right you got the wrong guy. Don’t you think you went a bit overboard? You could’ve at least asked my name before you shoved me to the ground.”
“Sorry, but I take no chances where Megan is concerned.” Hunter, the SWAT cop Nate recognized from the crime scene, stepped forward, Megan’s wallet in his left hand. He offered Nate his right. “Marc Hunter with Denver SWAT. Thanks for what you did today. You may have saved my sister’s life.”
His sister?
Megan was his sister.
And suddenly Nate felt less like kicking the man’s ass.
He took Hunter’s hand, gave as firm a shake as he got, ignoring the pain in his scarred fingers and tendons. “I’m glad I was able to help.”
The front door opened and Megan appeared, her face illuminated by the porch light. And, man, did she look angry. “Marc, stop! He’s the man… Oh. You figured that out.”
“I told you to stay away from the windows.” Hunter glared at his sister.
She ignored him, her gaze meeting Nate’s, her expression softening. “I … I’m sorry. My brother is just trying to keep me safe.”
“I brought your wallet.” Nate found it hard to talk with her looking at him like that. “I got it away from Donny and then forgot it was in my pocket.”
Hunter handed the wallet to his sister. “At least Donny doesn’t have it—which means he and his gang might not know where you live.”
Megan looked down at the wallet, then back at Nate. “Won’t you come inside, Nathaniel?”
“Call me Nate.” He needed to hit the road. He had a long drive home, and he needed to take care of the graze on his shoulder. Besides, he had no business getting involved with a woman right now—particularly when that woman’s brother was as protective as a pit bull and traveled with a pack.
But his mouth didn’t seem to be listening to his brain. “Thanks. I’d like that.”
# # #
Megan led Nate inside and shut the door behind him, ignoring the surprise on Marc’s face. She’d wanted to kick her brother’s butt when she’d realized who it was he and Julian had pinned on the ground in handcuffs. It was one thing to watch the house. It was another to beat up every man who tried to come to her door.
“Can I take your coat?” She glanced around, feeling suddenly conscious of the toys on the living room floor, the thin layer of dust on the furniture, and her own less than polished appearance. She probably had mascara all over her face from crying, not to mention her bruised and swollen cheek.
For a moment, he looked like he would refuse. “Sure. Thanks.”
He shrugged out of the shearling barn jacket, wincing slightly as he drew out his left arm. His dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt was torn at the shoulder, and the cloth was stained with…
Blood.
“Oh, God! I forgot you were hit!”
“It’s nothing, really.” He looked down at her, his gaze fixed on the bruise on her cheek. “Just a minor graze.”
“I’ll clean it for you.”
He shook his head. “I can deal with it when I get home.”
“Don’t be silly.” She walked into the kitchen, needing to check on Emily. “It’s the least I can do.”
He followed.
Back in the kitchen, Emily had finished her spaghetti and was sipping milk from her cup, her fingers as messy as her face, her fork conveniently forgotten.
“This is my little girl, Emily.” Megan couldn’t help but smile as she looked over at her daughter. Emily was the greatest blessing of her life, the one pure and beautiful thing that Megan had done, the only reason she didn’t view her entire life as a terrible mistake.
If a little girl as sweet and innocent as Emily had come from inside her, then she couldn’t be all that bad.
Nate looked over at Emily and smiled. “Hi, Emily. I’m Nate.”
Emily dropped her cup and put her hands over her face, hiding.
“I guess she’s going to be shy now. Sorry.” Megan walked to the sink, got a wash cloth wet with warm water. “We don’t get many visitors apart from family.”
“No worries.” Nate sat down at the table. “How old are you, Emily?”
Megan turned in time to see Emily take one hand from her face and hold up four messy little fingers.
“Four! You’re getting to be a big girl, aren’t you?”
Emily covered her face again and nodded from behind her mask.
“You’re good with kids. Do you have children of your own?” Megan walked to the table, wash cloth in hand, and wiped the spaghetti sauce off Emily’s hands and face. This naturally made Emily squirm in protest.
“No, no kids. I’ve never been married.”
Neither had Megan. She lifted Emily to the floor. “Why don’t you finish coloring your pretty picture while Mommy and Nate talk?”
Emily flopped down
on her tummy, picked up a red crayon and began to color the horse’s mane, humming sweetly to herself, her feet in the air.
And then it hit Megan as it hadn’t before.
Emily had been in danger today—because of her.
Oh, my God! Emily! They’re going to try to get my little girl!
Call the cops. They’ll get to her faster than you can.
Feeling as if she were made of wood, Megan walked back to the sink with the dirty wash cloth. She washed her hands, then turned to find Nate watching her. “Thank you for calling 911, for staying calm when I panicked. Your quick thinking helped keep my little girl safe.”
If anything should ever happen to Emily…
“You’ve had a rough night.” His voice was deep, soothing, his blue eyes warm as he watched her.
If the right side of his face weren’t so terribly scarred, he would have been almost frighteningly handsome. His jaw was square, his lips set in a firm line, his eyes expressive. He was every bit as tall as Marc, with broad shoulders and thick sandy brown hair that he’d cropped short. Although his right hand was badly burned, his left was unhurt, his nails neatly trimmed.
“Yeah.” She looked away, surprised to find herself thinking of him as a man—and yet feeling at ease with him at the same time. It must be because he’d saved her life. “It would have been a lot rougher if you hadn’t showed up when you did.”
“I’m glad I was there.” The tone of his voice told her that he meant it. “The guy who attacked you—has he been stalking you?”
“Yeah.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell Nate the whole truth about Donny.
“I know your brother is watching out for you, but maybe you should consider getting a concealed carry permit and a little revolver to carry in your purse—just in case.”
“I … don’t feel comfortable with firearms.” Another half-truth.